For Enemies
by Petyr Lupescu
Summary: After Harry Potter hits Draco Malfoy with 'Sectumsempra', intended for enemies, both begin to doubt whether their strange relationship is actually deserving of that title. Hold on tight - It's gonna be a bumpy ride.
1. Chapter 1

He had been sobbing unrelentingly, when he had walked in.

"Don't," Crooned Moaning Myrtle, from one of the far cubicles. "Don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you..." Malfoy's pale face had turned red, blond head bowed over the sinks. It was useless, a waste of his time, crying. People always acted like they knew how to help when they couldn't, and nothing struck him as more _fucking hopeless-_

 _"_ No one can help me." He gritted his teeth, squaring off his shoulders, as much as they shook, "I can't do it. I can't... It won't work - and if I don't do it soon..." He swallowed back thickly, voice thick with fear as he uttered his next words, " _He'll kill me._ " He squeezed his eyes shut, strong, but skinny arms shaking as they held up the weight of Draco's whole world.

He hadn't realised the tall, dark haired figure stood behind him, gawking at him as though he were some circus freak. _Draco Malfoy? Crying? This is an outrage! He isn't capable of emotions!_

Apparently not, until they flooded his face when he _did_ notice. The shock and horror that his weakest moment had been witnessed by none other than the most popular boy to ever live, _perfect Potter_ , combined with the shame of allowing himself to be so weak. Anger surged through him, and his face turned redder than Weasley's hair as he wheeled around, whipping out his wand, and instinctively firing a hex in Harry's direction. Naturally, he defended what little was left of his pride.

 _Get out!_

It missed Harry's face by mere inches, shattering the lamp behind him, and as the green-eyed boy threw himself sideways, the young Malfoy, seething with rage and offended by Harry's staring, readied himself again, alarmingly quickly, blocking his retaliating jinx, violently throwing it aside. His silver eyes were aflame with hostility as he raised his wand again.

Moaning Myrtle screamed something that he didn't quite process, too focused on making the other boy _pay..._

He shouted something he may have regretted, the bin behind Harry exploding, and - as he began the first utterance of an unforgivable curse - something had been shouted at him in return. Something that sounded like hissing, like _parseltongue_ , and it was violently colliding with Latin. For a moment, he'd jokingly thought the other to be summoning another basilisk. Almost quipped at him.

 _'Opening the Chamber again, Potter?'_

Knew it would get on his nerves, perhaps piss him off enough to run away, or kill him. Perhaps killing him would be doing him a -

 _Pain._

 _Excruciating agony._

Inside, he was screaming, and at first, he thought he had been hit with the cruciatus curse, until he realised that a thousand blades were skinning him from the inside out, pushing up through his marble white, _unbreakable,_ perfect skin, hot, sticky redness coming thinly at first, before thick, slow-flowing ribbons of blood began oozing out of him. The screams he thought he had been making were elicited as little more than strangled gurgles as blood began to bubble up his throat, into his mouth. Blood spurted from his face, and his useless hands scrabbled frantically at his cuts, as the deep slashes began to surface on his chest and stomach, too. He choked, stumbling backwards, his eyes rolling back as the angel eventually fell, jolting and jumping around on the floor in shock, silver eyes wide and horrified.

 _It was only meant to be a few hexes._

 _Not... not **this.**_

Tears streamed down his pale cheeks as the floor beneath him, once transparent with water, became dark and opaque with his body.

He knew he had fucked up by giving the necklace to Katie to deliver to Dumbledore. It was meant to kill him. But had he _truly_ wanted to kill Dumbledore? The obvious, logical decision would have been to deliver it himself, if he had. To ensure that there would be no excuse for a slip up. But no. He was _frightened_ , and Dumbledore didn't deserve this, but the pressure upon his young shoulders was almost too great to turn away from. He was crumbling under the stress and expectations... _Worse, in front of Potter._ He'd been quick to tease him about his struggles, quick to poke him when vulnerable, yet it was all compensating for the deep loathing within him. He had to express it somehow, even if putting himself on an even higher podium than the 'Boy Who Lived' was the way to go about it. To make himself feel better. He was bitter, though. Terror had made him cruel, and had twisted him into being something that he was not.

 _And Mr. Malfoy did not like losing control of things that could be controlled. His life was one of those things. It was his **right** to control that... not Voldemort's, not Snape's, not his parent's. His. _

_He was the Boy Who Suffered in Silence, and now Potter... Potter seemed to be soaking up this rare display of utter vulnerability like a sponge._

There was a rough, quiet laugh in his brain, as he bled out. _Of course, this was the perfect revenge, wasn't it?_

He looked at Harry, and his expression became forever engraved behind his ivy green eyes. _Happy now, Potter?_

 _"No-"_ He felt like the air had been ripped from his lungs. If only the air was to aid the boy on the floor...

He could almost hear the scornful spit behind those eyes, ablaze. He was an inferno, and yet not burning. The blood around him was the fire, and he himself was a marble sculpture. Hear the hiss of the snake.

 _Help me... please..._

His eyes were less bitter, now, and more scared. Terrified. Crying for help. In the end, no matter how much he rationalised, he still feared death.

What had he _done_ to him?

It was only meant to be to disarm him. Perhaps impress him with something he hadn't heard before.

Showing his best enemy a cool trick.

Not really an enemy.

Just a bit of childish banter.

That's all.

 _Right?_

"No, I didn't-"

 _Didn't what? Didn't mean it? Sectumsempra, for enemies. **For enemies.**_ _Malfoy was his enemy, wasn't he?_

The Potter boy took a step forwards, and in a fleeting moment, his hands were all over Draco's chest, which was shining scarlet in the dim light of the waterlogged bathroom. Draco's blood, on his hands, splashing up from the floor where he fell to his knees, staining his shirt, soaking into his trousers.

His pure blood, metallic and bittersweet.

Malfoy was shaking uncontrollably, blood bubbling up and sputtering out of his twitching mouth, his teeth stained red, tongue, too. Even in this state, he was struggling to maintain his dignity, his eyes screaming out for aid, but his body not wanting to be touched. He shuddered away from Harry's hands, the screaming in his mind numbing out most of his thoughts as the pain increased. He was gasping for air, his eyes wide and glossy, his chest juddering with each ragged breath.

 _Please leave. Don't watch. Don't act like you can help._

 _No, stay - please, stay- don't leave me alone like this, Potter!_

Each time Potter's hands touched one of the gashes, it was like being burnt with a white hot stick of metal. He sobbed again, and a hand slid under his head, the back of his hair wet and stiff with blood.

Harry's eyes were glittering with despair. Draco's mind quipped again.

 _Scared, Potter?_

He was in a vicious battle, half of his brain wanting to set free his demons for a moment, to share them with Harry, to let loose his struggles, and the other half was ripping him away from all that, smothering his pain with bitter, sarcastic, dry humour and hatred. He was flipping between the two chaotically, between the lamb and the wolf, not knowing which one to feed. He was comfortable with the wolf, an attitude he had always owned and festered with, but part of him wanted to embrace the lamb for once, to take the risk and show his _goddamn_ emotions.

If he could have, he'd have held Harry's hand, squeezed it until he nearly broke his fingers, for some sort of comfort. There was only so much he could take...

His vision began to turn black. Was he dying...? The screams were so loud, mixing with those from the ghost, who was shrieking blue murder.

The door crashed open, and his head began to spin. As Harry turned and recoiled, he made an attempt to grab for him, his stomach flipping uncomfortably at the thought of more and more people coming to witness him in all of his condemning dishonour.

 _Go away...! Don't look at me!_

Someone shoved Harry out of the way, and he waited for the laughs of a thousand Gryffindors. Waited for the dread to wash through him.

Instead, he heard the voice of his assigned guardian, Severus Snape.

Malfoy became passive, his mind at war again, between whether he would rather the Gryffindors over _Snape._ This would get back to his mother, who would lecture him again, pour over him like a baby, patronising him... and Merlin help him if his father ever heard about this.

He was crying again, and he would have fought Snape if he had been strong enough, as he was lifted off the floor into a half-standing position, his wounds beginning to knit together.

Snape's incantation had taken away the blood, but it didn't take away any of the pain. Not a single wretched, crippling _ounce_ of it.

Draco could feel his guardian's shaken heartbeat, betraying his usually cool and composed face. He risked looking, and Snape was _livid._

He closed his eyes again, and the sound of blood rushing around both of their veins, through Snape's pasty white neck almost made him vomit. It was so _loud..._

His mouth was dry, and all he could taste was blood, fear and regret. He forced himself to walk, attempting to go on his own before Snape's grip on him tightened, and shackled his dignity. His voice was more gentle, talking to Draco. Something about dittany and scars. He didn't care.

The frost bit back at Harry, however, and Draco knew that the fate awaiting Potter would be unyielding and perhaps little less than torture.


	2. Chapter 2

He had been angry. Of course he had. It was _Malfoy,_ for heaven's sake, he deserved to be hurt for whatever he'd done to Katie. What he did could have _killed_ her, and she was perfectly innocent. She didn't deserve this.

Worse still, the thing was supposed to be delivered to _Dumbledore._ That was what had made his blood boil the most. The sheer nerve of the Slytherin... He'd been pissing him off since they were both eleven years old, and now, at seventeen? This had gone on for long enough. This was pushing it. He'd thought that Draco was nothing more than a swaggering, obnoxious bully... but clearly he was more than that, now.

He was blindly furious, and yet he felt guilty.

He had never seen Draco cry before. He'd always been so guarded, so introverted, so sure of all of his decisions and stoically rational. Malfoy wasn't _known_ for expressing his emotions, unless that emotion was intense bitterness towards him and his house. Perhaps there was something he had missed? Something that he hadn't observed?

To say that he hadn't been paying attention to Malfoy was an understatement. He'd been paying attention to him in the way that he looked and acted around people, and it vexed Harry to think that he'd been barking up the wrong tree, analysing Malfoy's cleverly disguised mask instead of the real Draco.

His distress in the bathroom haunted him. _Somebody_ was going to kill him... and Harry was pretty sure he knew who. Draco's father was a Death Eater, and Harry was sure that Snape was, too. Both of them always had their beady little eyes on him all the time.

He hated himself for it, but in a way, he could feel Draco's pain. The pressure of constantly being watched, monitored. Harry could deal with it, because as uptight as he could seem, he was generally rather relaxed and cool headed. Malfoy was his polar opposite, in this sense. In more ways than one, he was worried about him. Annoyed, yes. Furious? Definitely. But loathing?... No. Perhaps he didn't hate the guy as much as he'd thought.

His blood had run cold when he'd seen Malfoy twitching on the floor, covered in blood. His instinct hadn't been to run away, or to finish him off. His instinct had been to _help._

But was he helping himself and his own ego to make himself feel like a better person? Or had he genuinely felt bad for Malfoy?

" _Nobody can help me._ "

He was familiar with this. Harry didn't like having too much help from people, preferring to be independent and do things alone. He thought he had been bad for this habit, but next to Draco?

Harry didn't even begin to compare.

He wanted to help him, he really, truly did. A chill ran down his spine.

In a way, he felt obliged to help him, partly out of guilt of nearly killing him, partly out of reason that perhaps Malfoy wasn't as bad as he'd thought he was. Perhaps he wasn't such a terrible person. He was frightened, because if the Slytherin really did have goodness at his core, there was still a chance of saving him from what he may become.

 _Could he bring himself to reach out?_

What would Ron say about this? Hermione?

 _"Filthy little mudblood!"_ Harry cringed, and the guilt tore him in half. Hermione wouldn't forgive him. Ron would take her side, viciously. Helping Malfoy could lose him two of his best friends, in the long run.

Was it worth it?

A few years ago, he'd have snorted and turned his back in preference of those who were easy to read, easy to deal with. People who gushed over him - as much as he played modest. In a way, he and Draco were two sides of the same coin. Draco wore his Slytherin traits as a symbol of pride, whereas Harry hid them in shame.

He remembered how he'd nearly been sorted into Slytherin. Every now and again, he catches himself thinking about it, how things may have panned out, if Ron hadn't shown blatant disgust towards them, and if Malfoy hadn't been at the Weasley's neck. He used to kick it under the carpet, avoiding thinking about the scary truth that perhaps he'd be strikingly normal and at home in the house. He wouldn't become a villain. He wouldn't become sociopathic... or worse. Slytherin house wouldn't have changed him at all, and it was childish, really, hating them. Sure, they'd had their fair share of dark wizards, but the other houses had produced near enough the same amount of idiots, too, like that fraud, Gilderoy Lockhart, of Ravenclaw House, and - who could forget? - Peter Pettigrew of his own house. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered about what Malfoy would have turned out like, too.

If he _had_ accepted his hand on that very first day.

Perhaps Malfoy would have found a friend in him, and wouldn't have to bottle up so many of his feelings. Perhaps he would have had someone to talk to, to confide in. Perhaps he wouldn't be a fucking _Chamber of Secrets_ himself. Maybe - just maybe - Malfoy was kind-hearted... tender, at the middle. It was at that very moment that Harry realised just how isolated the Slytherin was; he was like a lone wolf, lost in a cold whirlwind of snow on an even colder tundra, with no sense of direction but the looming burden of becoming one with the pack again, or facing death.

Still, _Ron and Hermione_. God knows where he'd be without them. Probably would have had his head lopped off by a giant chess piece or poisoned himself in the first year.

Even so, he reminded himself that Malfoy was a person too, and that it was Harry's fault that he hadn't picked up on the fact that he clearly had a lot to hide, emotionally. Because Draco did _have_ emotions. He'd been made eerily aware of that.

He contemplated all of this as he stood in the bathroom, watching Draco's blood spiralling out across the water like a bed of crimson flowers. He was soaked in his blood. It was all he could smell, all he could feel, sticking to his skin. His hands flexed as he recovered the memory, that moment when he was there, with him on the floor, cradling his head as he sobbed in pain, his hands applying pressure to the wounds. The way Draco's eyes screamed for help and comfort was something that he couldn't just shake off.

" _And you, Potter... You wait here for me."_ Cold fury. Harry had paled, knowing better than to disobey. It didn't occur to him to resist. It didn't even occur to him to tell Myrtle to shut up as she wailed and sobbed with what seemed to be increasingly evident delight. Too shocked. Too numb, processing what had just happened.

Something ached deep within him. What had he _done?_ Why had the Half Blood Prince betrayed him? The book had done so well up until this point. But now...? It was like owning a pet that had turned very suddenly savage.

The door flew open again. _Here we go._

Calmly, the door closed, and Harry was on edge again. It was the potion master's bleak, wintry coolness and composure that frightened him most, of all things.

"Go." He said, frigidly, sternly to Myrtle, who promptly made herself sparse via the toilet. The silence that descended afterwards made Harry's ears numb with the ringing.

"I didn't mean it to happen," He began, though however gently, his panicked voice still caused a deafening echo around the watery bathroom, "I didn't know what that spell did." His voice was thick with anxiety, and he swallowed back all of his regret, stomaching it for the time being, so as not to collapse.

Snape ignored him, harshly, doing no favours for Harry's increasing instability. It would seem that Snape almost got a kick out of watching him fail miserably.

"Apparently I underestimated you, Potter," Harry's gut churned, "Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?"

Snape was getting at something. Harry could feel it. The dark haired boy narrowed his eyes in minimal defiance, wondering what the _hell_ was going on. There was concern glittering in Snape's beetle-shell black eyes as he stared at him down his sharp, hooked nose.

"I - read about it somewhere."

"Where?"

"It was - a library book," Harry lied through his teeth, too frightened of the truth, and he cringed away even more at the look on Snape's face; he knew that Snape was away that he was lying to him. Nonetheless, he continued, sheepishly, since he had already started the lie and couldn't turn back, "I can't remember what it was call-"

"Liar." Snape was blunt and cynical, and had clearly had enough. Harry's throat went dry, his eyes widening.

 _Oh no, not again-_

The purple book violently thrashed through his thoughts, strongly swimming to the front of his mind, the cover emblazoned 'Advanced Potion Making'. As it opened, Harry recalled tracing his finger over the handwritten signature; _The Half-Blood Prince._ The image became hazy again, and consciousness came back to him.

He blinked several times, unable to turn his head to look away from Snape's eyes, and yet they were too unbearable to delve into. Harry's adams apple bobbed in his throat, and he felt like that scared eleven year old boy again. Even if he was catching up to Snape's formidable height, the cloaked professor seemed to tower over him like a great, ominous shadow. There was a knowing glint in his eyes, and Harry knew that he had seen it.

"Bring me your schoolbag," Snape said in his soft-spoken tone, "And all of your schoolbooks. _All_ of them. Bring them to me here. Now."

His legs jarred for a moment, before his mind willed them to move ( _if he valued his life)_ and he ran, pumped full of adrenaline, like a bull in a china shop towards Gryffindor Tower. Most people that passed him gaped at the state of him, covered in water and blood.

 _If they only knew whose blood it was._

He could smell Draco all over him. Draco, and guilt. He felt like a murderer, running away from the scene, and he tried his very best to ignore the swarm of questions that followed him like wasps.

" _What happened?"_

 _"Is that blood?"_

 _"Why are you covered in blood?"_

 _"Are you okay?"_

 _"Did he hurt someone?"_

 _"Where did he come from?"_

 _"Is everything alright?"_

All he could think of was Snape's reactions. He'd seen the grim look on his face when reading his thoughts... But what about when he saw the actual book? What if he confiscated it? What would Slughorn say...? That he was a fraud? Like _Lockhart?_ Harry felt attached to the book so much already. He couldn't stand the thought of it being taken away, even if it had caused him to severely hurt someone - to hurt _Draco_ \- it was still precious to him. He felt like the book was his friend, that this _Half Blood Prince_ was his friend, guide, mentor... perhaps even slightly parental. He couldn't lose it.

 _He **wouldn't** lose it. _

He was suddenly faced with a disgruntled and disturbed Ron.

"Where've you-? Why are you soaking...? Is that blood." Ron's eyes were wide and full of concern. Despite the questions - which Harry was slightly annoyed at - he was glad that he had Ron to care about him.

He was solemnly reminded of Malfoy, who had nobody. He clenched his jaw.

"I need your book." Harry panted, "Your potions book... quick; give it to me..." He held out his hands, adrenaline wearing off and causing him to feel quite sick and out of breath.

"But what about the Half Blood-"

 _Oh, shut up, Ron! Just give me your copy of the book!_

"I'll explain later!"

Ron - luckily - got the message and hastily produced the book, which Harry snatched up with a brief thanks, before sprinting off towards the common room. He tore his way into the room, seized his bag, and dived back out, frightening some of the students who had just finished their dinner. He threw himself past them, and barrelled down along the corridor, too focused on his ridiculous goal to _hide the fucking book._

He knew Snape had seen it. He knew this was futile, but he would do anything to _try._ It was better to _try,_ because god knows, it may actually work. This was a risk worth taking.

Holding the real book close to his chest, he closed his eyes and began to clear his mind, pacing back and forth in front of the tapestry of the dancing trolls.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit, bollocks, fuck, arse- I need a place to hide my book. I **need** a place to hide my book. I need-_

He heard the stones move, and opened his eyes, almost tripping over his feet when he finally saw his old friend; The Room of Requirement.

 _Perfect._

He chucked himself inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He slid down the wall, catching his breath, before his panic slipped away, and awe took over.

He was standing in a room the size of a cathedral, the hall piled up from floor to ceiling with countless objects that had been hidden from the rest of the world by previous generations of Hogwarts inhabitants, shafts of light filing into the room from equally massive windows. He gaped in wonder, wandering around the city of thingamabobs and whatchamacallits. Some of it glittered. Some of it looked very valuable.

 _Ah... shit. Where do I hide the bastard thing?_

Harry recollected his purpose, and wound around the heaps of clutter, frantically searching for somewhere safe to hide what was arguably his most prized possession. He soon spotted an old, rickety closet, the doors of which appeared as though they had had some sort of corrosive acid hurled at them, and he yanked one of the doors open, recoiling away slightly when he saw the long dead skeleton of some five legged animal in a cage. He stuffed the book behind it and shut the door.

He paused.

 _Still not good enough._

He placed an old bust in front of the wardrobe, dressed it up with a dusty old wig and a tattered tiara. Noticeable enough for him to find it again, now.

 _Much better._

He admired his spot, committing it to his memory before running again, realising that he didn't have much time left, and _certainly_ did not want to keep Snape waiting. He bombed towards the door, then out of it, slamming it behind him again, making sure that it turned back into stone before leaving, sprinting flat-out towards the bathrooms, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion Making into his bag before composing himself, and heading back into the bathroom. Snape was waiting, ever patiently, for him.

The Potions Master held out his hand, wordlessly, for the schoolbag, and Harry handed it over, with a face that outwardly projected innocence. His chest seared with pain.

Again, he reminded himself of Malfoy. Another wave of guilt.

Harry chewed his lip in anticipation, watching Snape analyse the contents of his bag, extracting his books and examining them, one by one. There were a few judgmental eyebrow quirks here and there, though Harry chose to ignore them.

A wise choice, on his behalf.

"This is your copy of Advanced Potion Making, is it, Potter?"

"Yes." Harry managed, still catching his breath.

"You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?"

"Yes." Said Harry, with a touch more defiance.

"This is the copy of Advanced Potion Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?"

 _The fuck are you getting at?_

"Yes." Harry gritted his teeth, though tried to control his facial expressions.

"Then why," Snape began, "does it have the name 'Roonil Wazlib' written inside the front cover?"

 _Oh, shit._

"That's my nickname." Harry provided quickly, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Your nickname." Snape repeated, criticizingly.

 _He's not buying it, Harry. He is not buying it._

 _"_ Yeah... That's what my friends call me."

"I understand what a nickname is." Snape uttered, coolly. Harry resisted the urge to slap himself. He looked down.

 _Close your mind. Close your mind... Don't think of anything..._

He hadn't learnt how to do it properly anyway. _Useless._

"You know what I think, Potter?" Snape said, very quietly, "I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?"

 _Honestly, I could think of nothing fucking worse than sitting in an office with you, you greasy git-_

 _"_ I - I don't agree, sir." He was very reluctant to meet Snape's gaze.

"Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions," Said Snape, "Ten o'clock, Saturday morning, Potter. My office."

 _What...? But that's...!_

"But sir," Pleaded Harry, suddenly desperate, "Quidditch... The last match of the..."

"Ten o'clock," Whispered Snape, with a sardonic, yellowed smile. "Poor Gryffindor... Fourth place this year, I fear..."

He left the bathroom without another word, black cape billowing out behind him. Harry was left in almost the same spot Draco had been in, looking into the cracked mirror with dread.

 _You fucked up, Harry._

 _Yeah, I know._


	3. Chapter 3

Draco had never felt so much physical pain in his life. He'd acted up when the hippogriff scratched him, just for the sake of grabbing the spotlight for a moment. It didn't hurt at all, but at least - for a short moment - people had been concerned about him. Worried about his safety.

Now? When he was _actually_ terribly injured?

He wondered if anybody had even noticed that he was missing from the common room.

He cast his sore eyes down at his scarred chest, bandaged up left, right and center. If he had been _Potter,_ everybody would have come to visit him. There was a time when people had visited him, but - as he remembered - that was just because he stole the spotlight for about five seconds. He thought back to his second year, when he'd convinced his father to splash the cash on Nimbus 2001's in an attempt to make some friends.

 _Potter was right, then. Money doesn't get anybody good friends._

He was miserable, his platinum hair fanned out like an ironic halo above his pale, fair face.

 _I'm no angel._

 _I'm not perfect. Only human._

Breathing hurt. He just wanted to close his eyes and not wake up again, at this point. Too full of stress. Part of him hoped that he'd never recover. Get something terminal, for some comfort off other people - even if they weren't totally genuine about it - just because he was dying. The rational part of him told everybody to go fuck themselves; he didn't want them near him, breathing his final, otherwise clean breaths of air if they didn't give a damn about him or his well-being.

 _It all hurts too much. Physically, mentally, emotionally..._ _In this state, I feel less intelligent. I don't feel right. I feel incomplete. Deprived. Unworthy._

His face crumpled, turning red as he tried to bite back sobs.

He riveted back to his attitude in the bathroom, suddenly not wanting the attention. He just wanted to be left alone where he could breathe and-

 _Think? No. Thinking is the last thing I need to do right now. I wish I could shut it all off, this stressful, tornado of thoughts._

He needed something to distract him.

 _Distraction... yes. Distraction is what I need._

He looked around the empty hospital wing, devoid of all patients and even Madame Pomfrey (who was in her office), though to his dismay and bitterness, he couldn't find anything about the room that interested him, and if Draco Malfoy wasn't interested, he would deny it altogether.

 _There's nothing stimulating enough._

It wasn't long before his brain came to torment him again.

 _Even Madame Pomfrey doesn't like me. Saw her face when she was treating me. Obvious distaste._

He tried to lighten his mood.

 _I guess that I'm merely a taste she hasn't acquired, then. I'd rather be one person's shot of fire-whiskey than everybody's butterbeer. I can't please everybody._

He frowned deeply, furrowing his brows.

 _Optimism doesn't suit me. It's uncomfortable. I can't roll a piece of shit in glitter and call it a golden nugget, so why try to do the same to reality?_

Thinking of reality hurt his brain again, and once more, his face crumpled, and tears began to well up in his eyes. Well, that _was_ until he heard footsteps.

He immediately closed his eyes, turning his head away, hiding his reddened face. Draco strained his ears to listen.

There was a scent he recognised.

His blood? It was all he had smelt for the past hour or so, so he wouldn't be surprised if he just had a bloody nose again. No, there was definitely a person there, next to his bed. His brow twitched uncomfortably. He hated being watched over.

A looming presence.

Was it Snape?

Surely. He waited for the adenoidal sigh, and then retreating footsteps, but they never came. Instead, there was a pause, and a rustling, as though whoever was stood - or sat - beside him was checking the wing for anybody else who may be watching.

It all made Draco incredibly uneasy, but he had his eyes closed, and so far, whoever it was was under the impression that he was asleep, so he would keep up appearances until the person disappeared.

The silence continued for ages. So long, in fact, that Draco thought that perhaps the noises he had heard had been figments of his delirious imagination. He considered opening his eyes, until somebody's fingertips touched his wrist.

His heart skipped a beat.

 _Who...?_

Something thin and paper-like was pushed into his hand, and those fingers lingered on his palm for a moment before withdrawing.

 _Then,_ and only then, was there a soft sigh, before the mystery visitor left.

 _Was it that Pansy Parkinson girl?_

 _No,_ he thought, _she has small hands. Soft looking hands. And I don't think she'd touch me with a ten meter pole._

 _Perhaps it was Crabbe? Goyle?_

 _Then again, they know better than to actually touch me. Plus I'm not sure if I even like them as people. I don't trust them, unless they're shielding me from something with their humongous frames. They're too intimidated by me to attempt to touch me._

 _Who isn't afraid of me...?_

 _A male, with average sized, soft hands. Probably tall. Smelt like-_

 _Wait._

Draco waited patiently, until the footsteps were gone. He sniffed the air again.

The smell of his blood had gone, meaning that the person at his bedside was one of two possible options; Snape... or _Potter._

Something told him that Snape didn't seem like the sort to push little paper notes into his hand.

His heart thudded against his chest, loudly, and he tentatively opened his eyes, catching a bleary glimpse of some sort of robe disappearing around the corner.

Draco's eyes immediately flitted down to the note in his hand.

Lined paper, probably from a workbook.

He unfolded it, curiosity peaking.

Two words, written down in a vaguely familiar hand.

" _I'm Sorry."_


	4. Chapter 4

As he'd rounded the corner, leaving the unit, he remembered the process he had endured to get to that point. He'd encountered denial, confusion, anxiety... but in the end he had beat them all down, and faced what he needed to do. It had taken more than one attempt to get his words down on paper, and even more than just one slip of paper. He'd crumpled it up in his hand on the way, considering throwing it away for all that it was worth. A piece of paper with ' _sorry_ ' written on it just didn't feel like enough.

He had thought about talking to Malfoy when he was awake, but his nerves had gotten the better of him, there. That aside, it was better this way - while he was asleep.

Harry remembered inspecting him, just a once over to make sure he wasn't still dying. More self-reassurance than anything. His stomach had churned upon seeing him, laying there with his eyes closed, with a death-like peace tided over him. Even with dittany, the scars were still large and grotesque, etched into his skin, which had been stretched and torn, pulled tight across his already thin frame, reddened _\- no, more than just 'reddened'_ \- it had been _**purpled** ,_ and bruised **,** the marks pulling taut from the tops of his exposed legs, around his sides and his sunken abdomen, his hips jutting out.

 _When was the last time he even ate?_ Harry thought, recalling how frail Malfoy had been.

The sourness of guilt in his mouth overwhelmed him, thinking of the aftermath. Some of the gashes had healed into scars, and some had still been in the process of doing so, riddling his arms and sides with half-healed holes, sores the size of Harry's fist, recovering layer upon layer of skin over the crimson muscle beneath, white blood cells coagulating and a sort of jelly forming just under where his skin - once fully healed - would be. Some scars resembled slash wounds, others deep, violent stabs.

He swallowed, his throat going dry with remorse.

Harry thought then, of the dittany, and - _oh_ \- how much Draco must have screamed when it was tipped over him, sizzling his skin, stretching it over his muscles, pulling together his scars, some of them ripping back open... He had been able to smell the intense, aggressive pungency of the dittany, that medicinal scent hitting him as he had entered the room. He heard the sound of Draco's screaming in his head, loud and blood-curdling, and it was enough to make him cringe away, his eyes welling up as he turned a corner in the general direction of the common room.

 _Was he going to cry? Now?_

Harry clenched his jaw, drawing in a deep breath, keeping his head held high as he walked, soon releasing a long sigh. _No._ Not now. Not here.

He didn't need that sort of attention right now. Didn't _want_ that sort of attention.

Draco floated to the front of his mind again.

 _Keeping up appearances so that the others don't spot the little lamb in the wolf's business suit._ For so long, Harry had been strong enough to not let other people get to him. He had stood his ground, and then, when delving so much as an _inch_ into Draco's world... for the first time, his knees had shook under the weight.

He noticed how much Draco had changed. He looked back towards the past, to their first year, and to the pale, tall, and somewhat sprightly boy in Madam Malkins, waiting for his Hogwarts robes. He had sunny white hair, and glittering silver eyes that held the secrets to all kinds of mischief.

...And then to the present day, to the paler, taller, eldritch wraith that impersonated him, with far too little grandeur, haunting the places that the _real_ Draco used to grace with more of a nervous shuffle than a proud stride; with hair faded to the colour of a rainy sky; eyes now dark, swirling with the treacherous, blistering winter that threatened the walls he had build up around his mind; and those eyes were encompassed by deep, puce rings of exhaustion, likely from nights spent twisting and turning beneath his sheets, fists balled into his hair. The only thing that identified him as the youngest heir to the Malfoy estate, now, was that ever present expression of bitterness and contempt for those around him, and all that encircled him. If anything, the expression had only intensified.

As much as it confused him, Harry wanted to see Draco back on his own two feet. Not because it was the noble thing to want, but because of something else. Something he couldn't put his finger on, but felt strongly akin to comfort. The way things _should_ be.

He wanted the happy Draco back. The one that would have duelled him in an instant, pushed him to a challenge. The one that kept him on his toes, and - _in some strange way -_ encouraged him to do better.

Harry wanted to see the Draco that insulted everybody he laid eyes on, the one that didn't give a damn what people thought, the one that was as majestic as an eagle and yet as utterly flamboyant as one could ever hope to achieve. Harry wanted to see _normal_ Draco.

Not this ghost that sauntered past every now and again, as soundlessly as the mist across a mountain.

He was so different, now. The more Harry thought about it, the more it terrified him to realise just how long he had been wasting away beneath the mask. Every so often his cover would crack, even if only marginally.

He soon realised how close he was to the common room, his body having gone into autopilot mode, and decided that it was time to put on a brave face again.

 _Just like Draco Malfoy._

Cringe with guilt.

The Fat Lady didn't let Harry's dejected demeanor go unnoticed, but as he promptly muttered the password, she swung open, clearly understanding that he didn't wish to be bothered.

An hour later, in the common room, he was faced with a rather cross Hermione Granger.

"Well, I won't say I told you so." She pursed her lips, folding her arms and passing him a knowing glance. Because clearly Hermione knew all about everything that had happened in his head in the bathroom. Clearly she knew _everything_ about acting on impulse, and how _controllable_ it was.

"Leave it, Hermione." Ron snapped, angrily, and for once, Harry was immensely grateful for Ron, even if in the back of his mind, there was a nagging little voice telling him that Hermione was just being like this because she was worried.

He didn't say anything, though, and probably for the best. He was too stressed out to engage in any more arguments. Things were serious, now. It wasn't all shits and giggles about diving in a lake, or collecting a shiny cup. People had died, he'd seen people die, and someone was about to die, unless he intervened somehow.

Harry hadn't gone to dinner.

He'd had no appetite at all, especially after seeing what had become of Draco in the hospital wing. McGonagall had confronted him, too, before that calling him out of the common room just to spend fifteen highly unpleasant minutes reinforcing what Snape had said in the bathroom, and seeming to wholeheartedly support his decision. Whether it was to be admitted or not, Harry hadn't really been listening to her, at the time, his only shaken thoughts being of Draco. _Where was he? Has anyone visited him? Is he alright? How does he look? How does he feel? Is he even awake?_

Those thoughts were the ones which had been on repeat in his brain, blaring and monotonous like a muggle police siren, or those megaphones that Miss Piggy used to communicate with the school last year.

Hermione couldn't stop herself. She continued, "I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person," she paused, looking between Harry and Ron, like a mother scolding two children, "And I was right, wasn't I?"

Harry's blood boiled.

 _She must get off on being 'right' all the time. This is her fucking thing, isn't it? Rubbing how 'right' she is in people's faces-_

"No, I don't think you were." Harry had finally had enough of being quiet, too annoyed and too stubborn to deal with neither Hermione's lecturing, nor anybody else's input into the situation. Harry just wanted to go to bed... Or go back to the hospital wing to see if Draco was awake yet.

No, he wanted to go to bed. The day had been too intense, what with moaning Myrtle doing what she does best and moaning what had happened to everybody who would listen. Hermione really wasn't helping him.

"Harry, how can you stick up for that book when that spell-"

 _Snap._

"Will you stop harping on about that book!" Harry burst, "The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to _use_ it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!"

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. How could Harry be so irrational? The book was very obviously dangerous, not to mention that it didn't follow the conventions of potion making-

"I don't believe this," Hermione's face turned redder, "You're actually defending-"

"I'm not defending what I did!" Harry barked, quickly, "I wish I hadn't done it, to be honest, Hermione, and not just because I've got a dozen detentions. You know, I wouldn't have used a spell like that - not even on _Malfoy-_ " His name hurt to speak, and felt like an icy knife in his gut, "but you can't blame the Prince. He hadn't written out ' _try this, it's really good_ '," His voice cracked, "he was just making notes for himself, wasn't he... not for anyone else..."

"Are you telling me," Seethed Hermione, "That you're going to go back...?"

"Yeah," said Harry, forcefully, looking her directly in the eye, "Yeah, I am, actually. I'm going to go back and get the book." He gritted his teeth, "Listen, without the book, I'd have never won the Felix Felicis..."

That was where Hermione stopped listening. _Was winning a stupid potions competition all he cared about? Getting good grades and rewards that he didn't even deserve? By work that wasn't even his own?_

She snapped something nastily, in return.

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione!"

Both of them were suddenly shocked out of their antisocial bubble by Ginny Weasley.

"By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an unforgivable curse, you should be glad that Harry had something good up his sleeve!"

Harry smiled at her appreciatively, but it was only with half of his heart, and even less of his mind. While he admired her bravery and loyalty to him, he didn't completely agree. _Sectumsempra_ was anything but good, and - in her defense - Hermione had every right to chide him.

"Well of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed," Hermione repeated, a little more softly, and clearly stung, "But you can't call that spell good, Ginny, especially looking at where it's landed him. And I'd have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match-"

"Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch-" Ginny snapped, and Harry instantly liked her less by the array of hurt that suddenly betrayed Hermione's composure. "You'll only embarrass yourself."

 _That was mean._

Harry stayed quiet, and was quite grateful when their dispute ended, the two girls sat facing away from one another.

Hermione _could_ be a bitch when she needed to be, as it was only in Harry's best interest, but for _Ginny_ to suddenly snap at _Hermione_?

It didn't sit right with him, though Ron seemed pretty comfortable.

 _Was Ginny usually as snappy as this?_

Harry stood, bewildered for a moment, before putting on a smile.

"Right," He clapped his hands together, "I'm off to bed."

His tone was more cheerful than he'd anticipated, and - as he walked away - he felt that for perhaps the first time in a long while, he had given the wrong impression. Given Ginny false hope. More guilt, as he ascended the steps to the dormitories...


	5. Chapter 5

To his surprise, Pansy Parkinson had been the first to visit him in the hospital wing after the rather strange incident with Potter. He had slid the paper note just beneath him, where he lay, upon her entry, and - after telling her just what had happened ( _and feeling like a politician cornered by a news editor the whole time)_ \- he was surprised to find that she wasted no time in villifying Harry Potter.

It irked him a little more than it should have. _Should have,_ considering that Potter had got him into this godawful state, but _didn't_ because he was somewhat grateful for it. Any reason to neglect carrying out his duty was welcomed.

 _"Oh, that's terrible, Draco..._ " She had fawned over him, and each time she touched his arm it made him want to wretch but he didn't, just because it was safe for her to keep thinking that he liked her. He wasn't _interested_ in females.

 _Oh, look at that. Another thing I have to try to hide._ _As if I'm not in danger of being shunned by everybody I know already._

She was either flirting heavily with him, or being very sardonic. Draco couldn't tell which, but he was offended by both and disliked them equally as much.

 _Flirting with him and looking for a hookup after he nearly **died**? What is wrong with the woman? _

_Probably only interested in my fucking money, and thinks she can get me while I'm vulnerable._

 _Fuck her._

 _Or is it satire? Does she think this is fucking funny?_

 _I'll show her fucking funny when my father gets a hold of her scrawny little neck-_

Or not.

No.

There was another wave of emptiness.

Father _wouldn't_ hear about this. Any of it.

It had been his go-to phrase for so long that he couldn't shake it when it invaded his mind, and now, whenever it did, he was solemnly reminded that he couldn't trust his father anymore. He didn't even _know_ his father, as he had assumed prior to the year gone by.

 _Who was Lucius Malfoy?_

Draco was ashamed, bitter. He paled even further, his skin going cold, all of a sudden. Perhaps he had died. Again.

 _Again._

 ** _Again._**

Pansy was still talking.

"Shut up, will you?" Draco husked in annoyance, glaring at her from the bedside. Her voice was annoying, and felt similar to the feeling of hearing a housefly buzzing near one's ears without being able to reach out, grab, and crush the damn thing. Pansy stilled for a moment, deciding that even though his attitude was uncalled for, it was probably best not to test him.

Even when bedridden.

Draco could be a nasty piece of work. Intimidating, when he wanted to be.

Not that he could any more, but it was handy to give that impression every once in a while, else people would accuse him of 'going soft'. Draco wasn't soft. With all that he had endured, _he was stronger than all of them, mentally. All of them put together._

 _"_ Don't you want to kill him, though...? Don't you want revenge for what he did to you?" The black-haired girl softly cooed, with a pout. She wanted him to say it. She wanted to hear him sneer like he used to and tell her _'Just wait until my father hears about this-_ '

"I can get revenge whenever I want to, Parkinson," He said, bleakly, "I don't need _your_ input. I'll decide what I want to do to him."

He only wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to do anything to Potter. Couldn't be bothered. It was useless anyway.

And he did not appreciate her joking about death, anymore, either.

 _Killing people isn't as funny as it used to be._


	6. Chapter 6

He couldn't sleep. He'd already woken up twice in two hour intervals, his shallow sleep invaded by images of Draco Malfoy either writhing in agony, or twisted memories from the day that they first met each other.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his hands over his face, ignoring the small bumps of acne under his fingertips. Perhaps he'd romanticised the thought of having an arch enemy too much. Nobody in real life has an arch enemy; that's common knowledge. The more he thought about it, the more it entirely _fucked him up_ , the more he came to realise and accept that Malfoy was _not_ his enemy.

So what was he, then?

He certainly wasn't a _friend._ Friends didn't shove each other in the deepest shit imaginable and then laugh about it. Friends didn't attempt to kill one another.

It fucked Harry up that he couldn't categorise him. He just couldn't fit Malfoy into any mold other than 'enemy', and even then, he didn't sit right, there. Potter furrowed his brow, sitting up in his bed, resting his back against his headboard. He patted his mattress beneath his pillow, his hand landing on his wand. He always slept with it there, too afraid of being attacked in his sleep.

" _Lumos._ " He whispered, the tip of his wand producing a silvery, fairly dim orb of light. He checked his watch.

 _It's only quarter to three._

He resisted the urge to groan, letting his hand fall back to his side.

His palm twitched. He felt Malfoy's soaking wet hair on him again, his blood sticking to his stiffening skin. His mind played another trick on him, and inside his head, he watched part of his dream playing out like the moving images on the front cover of the Daily Prophet.

 _He was cradling Draco on the floor, his hand stroking his celestial white hair as the Slytherin watched him, eyes full of fear. Harry held his face in his hands... then sharply jerked his head to the side, snapping his neck, watching Malfoy's eyes suddenly widen, the blood sputtering out of his mouth._

Harry cringed. _No._ He couldn't have killed Draco, even if he had wanted to. The thought horrified him.

His green eyes stared at the burgundy, velvety inner curtains of his four poster bed. He curled his toes into his cool, crisp sheets.

Another thought occurred to him rather suddenly.

 _Your life would be so boring without him, if he had died._

Harry pondered the truth of the thought. Indeed, life would be boring without Draco. He couldn't even _imagine_ life without Draco, always there, always bringing some sort of fun and chaos to any given situation, always appealing to Harry's more mischievous side.

Perhaps he _did_ like Draco, in some weird, masochistic way. If there was something that Harry respected about Draco, as unwell as the other could seem, it was the fact that he didn't hide who he was, like some other Slytherins did. Draco wore his pride, his dignity, his best side and his worst side on his sleeves. If he could accept his flaws, nobody could use them against him, and that was pretty sound logic, in Harry's head. Draco showed his scales, whereas Harry hid them, and it was something that he'd always admired in the Slytherin.

Perhaps it was just the shame some Slytherins felt about their house, that they couldn't be who they wanted to be because the other houses _'hated'_ them. Hell, the more Harry looked at it, it was no wonder that Slytherin house didn't like everybody else; the other houses were absolutely foul to them. Fred and George had even booed when a first year was sorted into the house.

 _Imagine how much that would fuck a kid up. You're starting school. Magic school, nonetheless. You're ambitious about who you want to be, where you want to be, and who you want to be there with. You're excited about Slytherin house, the house of ambition and success. The home of entrepreneurs and powerful leaders._

Harry's face soured.

 _You could have come from a place like the Dursley's. Eager to get away from life at home. Slytherin house is your safe haven for like minds. You feel a rush of excitement when you're sorted... and when the hat calls 'Slytherin', instead of being cheered like everybody else, you're booed and looked down upon like dirt. And you have to deal with it for seven long, hard years._

 _Is this really the home of the successful, now?_

 _Or is it just home of the broken? The home of the pariahs? The outcasts? Outsiders? The people that nobody wants around?_

Harry felt a strong wave of emotion. He needed to fix this, however impossible it was, and however much the other Gryffindors would damn him to hell and back. There was no point in all of this hate. After what he experienced in the bathroom, they're all human.

 _Malfoy isn't a robot. He has thoughts and feelings, too. He has hopes and dreams - or at least, Harry would like to think that he does._

It upset him too much to think of Malfoy as being broken and depressed, that perhaps he didn't wear _everything_ on his sleeve. It hurt his brain to realise that this underlying despair was the real reason behind his hostility towards others.

 _His tendency to push people away._

 _Oh, God._

Harry's stomach churned. How hadn't he seen the signs? Was he _that_ into perceiving Malfoy as his glorified and incredibly stimulating arch enemy that he had completely missed the obvious signs that he was falling apart? Crumbling, like Quirrell had in his first year?

He suddenly felt overwhelmingly selfish.

He'd just wanted an enemy. Someone to vent his anger onto. Someone to be a punching bag, when all Malfoy had done to him was extend a hand of friendship.

All these years thinking that Draco was the bully, when - in actuality - _Harry_ was the one more befitting of that title. Draco, when put into perspective, was merely defending himself, and carrying out his revenge after being rejected.

Draco was just trying to scoop himself together after being denied friendship by the most popular boy in the world.

 _'Wow, I'm actually a complete twat.'_ Harry thought, his head swirling with a blizzard of contemplation. Another daydream cut into his mindful reverie.

 _He'd taken his hand._

 _The look on Ron's face as Harry's hand had actually reached out and grabbed onto Draco's. Ron seemed nice, and all, but Draco was assertive of what he wanted, and Harry was immediately charmed. This was a boy who made it clear that he wanted a best friend, a confident boy with glittering silver eyes and the most enticing of all smirks. A smirk that promised years of mischievous fun, and a demeanor that suggested 'I'm the one who will help you succeed. I'll push you, and guide you, and support you, and encourage you to think freely of your own accord. I will make you the best version of you that you can possibly imagine'._

 _There had been surprise and delight in Draco's eyes. Some amaranthine, childish glee of being accepted by a hero, joy at the possibility of being this story's badass sidekick, instead of the isolated villain._

 _Harry had no fear of Slytherin house. Ron hadn't even told him. Harry wasn't biased. Harry had Draco, and Draco had Harry, and they didn't let go of each other's hands until McGonagall spoke from the stand. Malfoy stood close to him, thrilled to have a friend, and Ronald Weasley grimaced and shuffled away to socialise with Seamus Finnigan and Hermione Granger._

 _Harry had no regrets._

He became suddenly sad. He knew he was a Gryffindor. Even so, why would he have had to be sorted into Slytherin to be friends with Draco Malfoy? Hufflepuffs were friends with Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike.

Harry, himself, was friends with Luna Lovegood of Ravenclaw house.

 _So what was stopping him from reaching out to Draco Malfoy?_

That was the last straw. Harry was up, out of bed, and wrapping the invisibility cloak around his shoulders.

' _I'll be damned if I let him slip away.'_


	7. Chapter 7

_I just want to die without any regrets. I want happiness._

 _All these blissfully oblivious zombies around me... their joy kills me._

 _I'm waiting for a hint of something to hit me._

As usual, he was still awake. He hadn't slept for very long at all. Barely a wink. He tended to just stare at walls until his eyes rolled back into his head, nowadays. Walls, ceilings, floors... there was no difference. He'd just sit there and stare, waiting for sleep to take him... if it ever did.

He'd pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to act as though he wasn't terrified by all the random noises around him. The ones that weren't real, like the sounds of footsteps he'd hear every so often, or the rustling of someone walking towards him. His eyes darted around in paranoia, under the terribly chilling sensation that he was being watched.

Eventually, the sounds and the movements of shadows became too much and he planted his face in his hands, drawing his knees up to his chest, just willing for it all to go away.

Every single movement, every single _fucking noise_ set him off and made him jolt, sent his pulse skyrocketing for a split second before it happened again.

He was very, _very_ afraid of the dark.

" _Draco_ _."_ He heard a voice whisper, and his hands began to shake.

 _It's not real, it's not real, it's not real. Just go to sleep. Lie down and go to sleep._

Malfoy would have lead down if he could move. If he wasn't paralysed with terror.

"Malfoy." He heard the voice again, this time a little more closely, and he began struggling for air, feeling as though he were being suffocated, his heart rate just rising, his breathing speeding up erratically.

"Oi, Malfoy. Stop freaking out."

 _Hold on a fucking minute-_

Draco's breath caught in his chest.

 _Is that...?_

"Potter?"

 _Up this late?_

"Yeah."

No, Harry Potter was definitely stood at his bedside. Draco slowly opened his eyes, stomach churning when he saw Harry's silhouette sat there, in the seat next to his bed. His mouth twisted into a horrendous frown, his hands balling into fists.

"What do you want? Come to finish me off?" Draco seethed in a low and furious hiss, gritting his teeth. He felt something wet sliding down his cheek and realised that he'd let more tears escape. At least it was dark so that Potter couldn't see them. It was so dark in the wing that they could only vaguely see each other's outlines.

"Honestly, calm down. I'm not going to kill you. I couldn't do that even if I wanted to."

"Don't act so fucking noble, you know what you did."

"And it was wrong, and I'm sorry," Harry's silhouette started, and Draco could feel the frown of disapproval, the hint of a challenge, "It really fucked me up, too, you know. I had no idea what that spell would do."

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I don't understand why you've come to visit me at 3 o'clock in the morning just to tell me that you were hurt by the spell that literally slashed me to pieces."

"And I don't quite understand why you're always so aggressive but I suppose that's just something you'll have to educate me on." Harry quipped.

"Fucking pinch me, I think I've actually managed to fall asleep because of how stupid this scenario is." Malfoy grumbled, turning his head away from Harry, jumping in shock when he felt a finger and a thumb pinch his arm quite harshly. He'd managed to miss his scars, even in the dark.

 _Had Potter memorised where his scars were?_

 _"_ Still think you're dreaming?" The Gryffindor prodded sarcastically.

"No." Malfoy snapped, before sheepishly asking, his curiosity getting the better of him, "What _are_ you here for, anyway, if not to poke fun at me, and how the fuck did you get here without being caught?"

Harry shifted in his seat.

"Well, step one is to have an invisibility cloak," Harry watched as Malfoy became suddenly more aware in his seat, having caught his interest, "And secondly, I genuinely want to know what the hell is up with you. Before we decided to go apeshit with hexes and curses-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Draco said, flatly, cutting Harry off.

There was a moment of silence. Harry was thinking, and Draco didn't like it.

"I've noticed that you don't say your little catchphrase any more."

"I already said that I don't want to talk about it."

"Well you need to talk to someone or else you're going to lose your shit. Pardon me for actually caring, but I'm really uncomfortable with what I saw, and I can't just let that slide and pretend it didn't happen." Harry protested, insisting on knowing exactly what was going on. Subtlety didn't exist any more. Neither of them knew what the word meant.

"What part of ' _I don't want to talk about it_ ' do you not understand?" The Slytherin snarled, getting angrier by the second.

Harry took a step back, mentally, and decided that it was best not to provoke him any more.

"Alright, okay. Fine. If you don't want to talk about it, can you show me how you feel, instead?"

" _No._ "

"Is there any way that I can help? I remember the time you reached out to me in our first year and feel pretty shitty about it."

"I remember when you rejected me in front of everyone and made me feel ten times shittier."

"You didn't answer my question. Is there a way that I can help now, where I failed to accept you before?"

Silence descended once more.

Harry could hear the rain against the glass outside, the howling of the wind through the cracks in the walls, the ruffling of the curtains. The sky outside was a deep, regal blue. Malfoy's sitting silhouette was still facing him, and the Gryffindor could almost _feel_ the Slytherin's ' _what the actual fuck'_ expression, even though he couldn't see it. He knew that Draco was analysing him from head to toe, calculating his next series of questions.

There was one sure fire way to find out what Malfoy was thinking.

Harry moved to stand up.

"Should I leave?"

He'd never seen a person move so quickly in all his life, as Draco's hand immediately shot out and grabbed hold of the side of his pajama shirt.

"No. Please. Don't. Just don't."

A hint of panic.

Harry bit his tongue. Was this the point of no return? Had he already gone past it?

Harry paused, watching Draco recoil, ashamed of his needy reaction. He hated his own vulnerability. It took a moment for him to move again, still able to feel the unyielding force of Draco's grip on his side. When he did move again, it wasn't to sit in the chair. He instead sat on Draco's bed, beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm not the best at it, but if you don't want to show what you feel or talk about the way you're feeling, I can offer physical comfort. Sometimes, just having someone near you is enough to keep a guy sane. You don't have to say anything. We can sit in silence for the next hour before the nurses do their rounds, if you want."

Silence again, before Harry felt Draco's weight leaning slightly closer to him, and an arm slid around his side from the back.

"I'm sorry about this. And this better not be some sick joke." Malfoy muttered, "And you better not tell anybody."

Harry snorted.

"Oh, don't worry about me telling anybody. My name would be mud if the Gryffindors knew what I was doing right now. No offence."

"None fucking taken."

Draco had always wanted to do this to someone. To a tall and handsome someone. To just slide his arm around his waist and lean close to him. It wasn't the same with girls; they were too squishy and rag-doll like in his arms. From one young prince to another, Draco needed someone who felt simultaneously like a stuffed toy and a brick wall.

Harry was perhaps a little more on the stuffed toy side judging by his stomach, but the firmness of his chest and shoulders provided the perfect balance. Harry wasn't clingy like Pansy Parkinson. He didn't have his hands all over Draco like she would, without his consent to do so.

The Gryffindor let out a deep sigh before situating his arm around Draco's shoulders. His white hair ticked Harry's cheek as the taller boy rested his head on his shoulder.

Something warm stirred within him.

Perhaps this was therapy for both of them. Perhaps this was what they needed. Someone to confide in.

 _But couldn't Harry confide in Ron?_

Of course he could... but not like this. Ron would want to know what the fuck had happened and whether Harry was being a 'ponce' or not. Ron would probably make fun of Harry for behaving like this.

But not Malfoy.

Malfoy was utterly content with - for lack of a less risky word - _cuddling_ him in the dark, exchanging no words. It would seem that despite the blond's judgemental personality and snarky behaviour, he actually didn't judge Harry for it.

Probably because he was too caught up in his own thoughts.

Draco sighed and wrapped his other arm around Harry, to which Harry responded by doing the same, and they sat there, intertwined in the darkness, with no need to speak or make a single sound.

Just having someone around was indeed enough to keep a man sane.


End file.
